


Give Me An Inch (And I'll Make It 5/8ths)

by cryogenia



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Eggnant Sex, Eggs, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Pheromones, Pregnant Sex, Xenophilia, but everything is explicitly consensual, dash of that good old fashioned sex pollen, or maybe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-09-27 08:14:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20404531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cryogenia/pseuds/cryogenia
Summary: Your name is Karkat Vantas, your matesprit is wonderfully, terribly gravid, and you have no idea the fuck to sew a pillow.





	Give Me An Inch (And I'll Make It 5/8ths)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lizardlicks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lizardlicks/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [HRKinkmeme](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/HRKinkmeme) collection. 

> **Prompt:**
> 
> Eridan is very gravid, and very grumpy. His mates take some time to dote lots of love and affection on him, and spoil him rotten.

Like most “creative” things you attempt, the end result is impressive if you didn’t know it was supposed to be something completely different.

The comfort object in your hands is that exact flavor of fuckup, a tiny, almost-square pillow of dice pattern fabric ringed by a plush candy red velvet border. It’s the kind of useless thing that lususes put on the loungeplank to pretend their wiggler isn’t a complete failure. No one in their sound pan would actually use it to nap, but it might look good if buried with enough shit. 

Which is the real reason you were sewing, more or less, so you suppose it’s okay to give to Eridan. Right now he needs soft things pretty much constantly, and no matter how dumb this particular present looks you can already feel that pull directing you to his pile. Your stupid reproductive instincts have at long last explained why your species likes to create stacks of idiotic things, and it’s because you can’t resist the constant need to hide him. 

This pillow was supposed to be big enough for him to snuggle with his entire body. Thanks to your incredibly inept measuring, it kept getting smaller and smaller.

Rose gives your creation a quick once over, pulling at a few of the seams, then apparently judges it sound.

“Congratulations,” she says, deadpan in a way that guarantees she’s laughing. You would bite her, except you already can’t be around other trolls without fighting them. You flush and force yourself to thank her instead, then fly out of her block like your ass is on fire.

You push your way back into yours and breathe a guilty sigh of relief.

Eridan is curled up at the center of your pile, exactly the way you left him: rounded, shirtless, and grumpy, chewing on the edge of a snuggleplane that’s seen better days. His left leg’s hooked over the loungeplank cushion he grudgingly uses in place of you when he’s hurting. Which is often, these nights. His boxers no longer sit anywhere but underneath his belly, covering his nook but barely anything else. His belly is the biggest part of him, a huge bump that pulls his entire body off balance. 

_Gravid_. 

_And they’re _yours.

You breathe in deep, tasting the tang of _safe_ and _sex_ and _HIVE_, and something in your spine unfurls.

Eridan cracks an eye open and makes a face.

“Oh my god, w-what did you get _now_?” he complains.

The hormones might be hitting you like a drone claw to the face, but you aren’t far gone enough not to chuck the pillow at his head.

“I _made_ it, fuckface,” you tell him. “So sorry to interrupt your busy night of being up your own nook.”

“There’s _eggs_ up my fuckin’ nook,” Eridan mutters back, but he’s distracted. He’s turning the pillow around and around in his hands like he’s only just now seeing it and - oh, _there_, there it is, that adorable needle-point tooth grin. 

It never gets old how he melts when he realizes, you _did _something for him. Expensive presents on their own don’t mean all that much to Eridan - fucking fish grew up with everything he could ever want, the exact second he wanted it; like he actually sees value in Violenciaga or Harmani. Those are table stakes for what he was on the old world.

Make him something though - something unique, something in your colors, something themed after his interests - and his lip will wobble and his fins will flush, and sometimes lately he will even trill. You know _him, _and he’s every bit the hopeless romantic that you are. 

“Aw, Kar…”

There’s that tremble in his voice too. It tells you that he’s smashing his face into the trim because he’s trying to hide a dopey grin.

You get a knee up on the pile and crawl closer, compelled not only to get a better look at him, but tuck the new offering more neatly into the spiral of blankets and cushions around him. You can’t help it, it’s some kind of demented fucking instinct. Kanaya thinks it might be like how grubs make protective casings out of cocoon silk and pebbles. The smallest things outline Eridan most closely, human platform pillows and folded snuggleplanes and at least three capes with thick plush lining. Larger stuff makes up the lower layers, thicker cushions and stacked soporsacs. 

You stroke a hand over his head and gently tug the new pillow away. Eridan whines so you don’t move it far. Just. Nudging it into place so it fits with the rest of the chaos. 

“Hey,” you say, stroking a hand over his mess of curls. He hasn’t had the energy to style his own hair in nights, and it’s spun into the softest disaster you’ve ever touched. All his violet is spun into a third horn that sticks straight away from his head.

Eridan butts his head into your touch and whirrs like a sleepy purrbeast.

“Hey, yourself,” he says gently. He cups a callused hand to your cheek and you can’t help but nuzzle his wrist.

You can feel the need curling into you now, slow and steady. You open your mouth near his pulse point and there’s a taste that’s not a taste, like the remains of a sugargrub sticky on your lips. Makes you want to cuddle up and drink him. Stroke him until his sleepy scent is all over your tongue, and that still might never be enough.

Eridan shifts and makes space for you to topple behind him. You go down like a ton of bricks and mold yourself to his back, purring like you’re getting drunk. He’s taller but you’re broader, and you know your heat makes him feel better.

“Back hurt?” you ask him.

“Always,” he grumbles. You wiggle a hand down to the small of his back and knead, feeling him loosen and moan. You press your nose at the base of his neck and huff him like a simple beast, leaving your limbs loose and tingling.

His voice is a little softer when he speaks to you next.

“Kar?”

“Nn-hm?”

“You okay?”

“Nn-hmmm,” you hum. Words are...words are dumb when he tastes like this. When it’s you and him _together_, your personal musk mixed in with his sweat and that fancy oil he likes you to rub on his stretch marks. It used to freak you out more, how nonverbal you can get. You know he still worries sometimes. 

Which is fair, being obnoxious is kind of what you’re known for. Your real typing quirk is opening your fetid flap and talking directly out of your chute like you know anything about being in charge of anything. Eridan’s is begging for attention even when he already has your attention. The two of you probably qualify as a full-blown circus act honestly, but you refuse to start giving a shit about religion. Fuck miracles, you can communicate and work through shit.

You clear your throat and manage some actual syllables and phonemes. 

“‘M just comfortable,” you slur. “I’m good.”

You slide your hand forward in an attempt to squeeze his. You get lost on the expanse of his belly instead. He’s so fucking massive you can barely get your short arm around his middle, and there’s places you can almost swear you feel individual eggs.

You knead at a silvery stretch mark and he whimpers. It sends heat rushing from your horns to your toes.

“_You_ feel so goddamn good,” you tell him.

“Feel like a fuckin’ bumper,” he says. You think those are the inflatable things that hang on boats? “Fuckin’ pain in the ass fuckin’ eggs.”

You dig your knuckles into his flank in response, crooning a little to help him feel better. You know his sides ache pretty much constantly, especially where his middle attaches to hip. Eridan’s stomach isn’t flat normally, by any stretch of the imagination – he’s a sea dweller, padded and powerful, made for surviving at depths that would freeze your fucking nook off – but the eggs have pushed him so big so quickly that even his hips creak. You’re not surprised that he grabs your hand and moves it lower, wordlessly demanding that you pay attention to his pelvis, too.

You’re also not surprised when you dig in with your knuckles and he reacts by flexing his legs, rocking himself against the cushion between his thighs. Eridan’s bulge is almost constantly out these nights, curling aimlessly through the leg hole in his boxer shorts. There isn’t enough room for it to stay inside. It doesn’t necessarily mean he’s aroused, but it means it doesn’t take as long for him to get ready.

Sometimes when he _is_ ready, you push him on his back and ride that fat bulge like you stole it. It’s not easy with his bump in the way but it makes you scream like the world is ending all over again. You hang on to his round stomach and beg him to give it to you harder, take whatever he needs, just, _fuck _-

“Ew, Kar!” Eridan is laughing and wiggling suddenly, nudging your mouth off his shoulder. “You’re droolin’ on me.”

You roll your tongue back into your mouth, hot all the way to the nubs of your horns.

“Sorry,” you tell him. “Fucking hormones.”

Eridan makes a sympathetic noise, brushing his own fingers over your hand. 

“I know I ain’t makin’ it easier.”

“_You_ didn’t do shit,” you tell him fiercely. “You get whatever you want.”

He squeezes your hand again.

“This is good,” he reassures you. 

Familiar velvet tickles over your hand. He must have pulled the pillow closer.

“You _did_ good,” he says. 

It’s so stupid but damn it, shit like that is what you live for, especially when you’re scent-drunk and cozy in a pile. You’re incredibly glad he can’t see what’s probably the new world’s dopiest expression on your dopey fucking face. 

You settle for giving him a kiss at the sensitive spot low on his neck, right where it curves into shoulder. He shudders and squeezes his legs a little tighter against his cushion.

“Kar,” he croons. Your fingers dig into his taut belly on reflex. You’d think pressure would hurt, but his voice kicks into the subsonics, moans you can feel in the roots of your fangs.

You go back to petting him with stronger strokes this time, fascinated by the cadence of his breath. The way it hitches when you hit a particularly sore spot; the little sigh that slips in when it eases. There’s times when he’s almost insatiable and he’ll beg to fall asleep with you touching him. Some nights, you beg to fall asleep inside _him._ He doesn’t need any more of your hopbeast bullshit but your body is so compelled to please him. You’ve been running on fumes for nights but he makes that deep, rumbly sound and your tired bulgesheath twitches.

“Fuck,” you sigh, rocking your bone ridge against his ass. Your tip is already out, an electric little nub that catches your fly and makes you see stars.

“Kar,” he says again, and there’s a slight undercurrent of warning. You still your hips but it’s a physical effort. “I ain’t up for anythin’ too athletic.”

“I know,” you tell him. Shit, like you’re not in the same boat. You’ve been shooting blanks for a week, which helps with how swollen he is but does nothing for the infernal need. You catch that scent on the edge of your lips and you need it _more_, you need every part of him dripping with you. Another mutant thing maybe, no one else reacts like this. The saner part of your scrambled pan is pissed at your freaky biology for making you so loopy.

The greater part of you reels when Eridan guides your hand down to the waistband of his boxers. They aren’t even over his belly and the elastic still bites into his skin.

“Just go slow?” he suggests, way too hopefully. You want to laugh, but it comes out breathy. Your pusher leaps as he helps you roll his only scrap of clothing down, leaving his boxers caught around one knee.

Fuck, you touch the crotch and they’re already dripping. For all that he acts like he has it together, the instincts are hitting him just as hard as you.

“Get me up,” he says, pawing at the nearest cushion.

“And that doesn’t count as athletic?”

“Shut up an’ roll me.”

You roll your eyes instead and help him rock onto all fours, kissing along the ridge of his shoulders. It’s his favorite position even though he can’t stay comfortable on prong and nub for long anymore. He likes it when he can feel you deep, his own Probably-Mutant Imperative. God, this whole thing is one prolonged pan-fried accident but you can’t help the way it makes you feel. His belly hangs down like a perfect teardrop and you slide your hands underneath to heft it up, taking some of the weight off his spine.

“You okay?” you manage to choke out. Language is evaporating again in the face of him naked. On _display_ for you, showing that egg bump, making little shallow groans. You drag your cheek over his wings of his shoulder blades, dousing him with the pheromone glands just below your cheekbones.

Eridan inhales like a shot.

“Fuck, Kar,” he groans.

“Are. You. Okay?”

“That was a ‘yes’.”

Good, fuck, you have to be sure. Your tongue is turning back into a pretzel and you can’t keep it inside your mouth. Your scents together are a one-two punch in the face and you massage his belly like it’s the only thing your prongs ever learned how to do. Lift, squeeze, and roll; lift, squeeze, and roll, one endless, cycling wave. Your bulge unsheathes with it, piling into your boxers with a rush that leaves you trilling.

His bulge is a fat curlicue twisting sluggishly between his legs, like it’s unsure what to do now that his boxers aren’t pinning it. You shove the front of your jeans down wholesale, letting yours curl toward him. It wraps over his nook seam from behind and he hisses.

Still sore then, fuck. You don’t want to make it worse. You keep your bulge out of him, but it’s hard, it’s hard, it’s hard. His nook lips are so swollen that just gliding between them feels like you’re being gripped and you want to be in him. You nudge the base of his bulge instead, challenging it to twine with yours. Every ripple feels electric, zinging heat back through your spine, leaving the backs of your legs all shivery.

God, his bump is heavy in your hands, tight and firm and you can’t stop touching it. No one knows how long the eggs are going to gestate but knowing they’re in him is driving you crazy. You drink his scent and it’s like your head comes unscrewed a quarter tic. Everything’s floating, the respiteblock or you, and your thin bulge twines around his like a hairorist’s pole. Squeezes it.

Eridan calls for you and you can’t help but answer, high in your throat in that register you never hit before this whole mating cycle madness. His fins are spread out like sails, taut as if he’s caught in high wind. They’re so wide you can see the little dark circles where his lateral line organs run. Another weird thing sea dwellers have, tiny sensors that let them know where they are in the water. You tease your claws over the ones that stripe into his flank, and your head swims when that makes him nearly collapse.

“None ‘a that,” he growls, trying to sound fierce, but his voice is so thick with arousal you can barely make it out. “Gonna – fuckin’ fall dow-wn, fuck, it’s so –”

You don’t catch what it is because you pull your prong back, focusing instead on touching him with your bulge. You can feel the backs of his thighs trembling just as hard as yours and you want to bring him, hot and fast before you’re both overwhelmed. Everything between you happens like lightning and it should be embarrassing but you don’t care, fuck, you might never care again. Whatever he wants, whatever he needs. The only stamina you have is for him.

You must be making a truly pathetic noise because he’s whispering to you.

“Shhh,” he’s saying, “shhh shhh shhh,” and he’s definitely not your fucking moirail but it helps. Your mutant magma-blood is _boiling_.

You try to tell him you’re okay, you’re just hot, but your voice doesn’t work like you mean it to. Everything comes out in a throaty trill.

Eridan rocks back and pushes you with his plush rump.

“Slow,” he reminds you.

“Shit,” you end up gasping once your purrbox lets up.

“We can lay dow-wn,” he says and you don’t really want to, not when you’ve got him drawling, but your legs feel like they’re melting. Your bulges don’t let go the entire time you shift, waving frantically to keep touching. Each lash sends another bright spot sparkling through your body.

You end up on your sides again, you behind, him in front. One of your arms is trapped under him and you could not give less of a shit. You use it to hug him closer and he makes the sweetest bubbly noise.

“There you go,” he pants. “’S that better?”

You feel vaguely like that ought to be your line but the thought goes right out of your pan when he cocks his leg, opening himself up. Offering his _scent_. Everything comes over muzzy and you chirp like an idiot. Your face would be buried between his legs if he didn’t have you pinned.

His bulgetip pulls yours with more precision than you could manage with your whole body and brushes it against his puffy nook. Guides it just barely _in. _Cool-tight-slick envelops your entire world and you wail for him.

“You like that?” he breathes. He sounds smug as hell. 

“Are you shitting me?” you croak. “_Yes_.”

He trills back and uses his grip on you to flick your bulges back and forth, drawing a little circle just inside his entrance. ‘Just the tip’. Fuck your existence. Your spine feels like it’s liquid silver.

“Don’t wanna hurt you,” you slur.

“Just go slow.”

“You keep saying that word like it’s going to magically happen.”

Eridan huffs at the ‘m’ word but doesn’t take the bait. He squeezes your free hand against his belly instead. One of the eggs – _your eggs_ – is right there and that whites you out too.

“I’ll tell you if it’s too much,” he says. “Shh, c’mon.”

His thick bulge urges yours in deeper and you both bite back a curse. Neither of you can get all the way in like this and it’s making you crazy. You lick frantically all over his back, every inch you can touch, and his taste only burns you hotter.

_Yours._ Your quad, your eggs, your scent, your sea dweller. You bury your face in his shoulder and call for him, and feel his answer reverberate through your chest.

“I got you,” he’s saying and once again that’s your line, but your words are very far away.

His bulge surges against yours and all the tension rolls like ice water down your back.

It doesn’t last long, even though you wish it could. Each ripple of his bulge sends a wave of heat into your nook, making you clench painfully around nothing. You keep swiveling your hips in circles, trying to feel more of him, trying to get deep, and he shudders in your arms.

“Yes,” he says, and you say something wordless. You don’t have anything left in your materialsac but you can feel it squeezing, trying to give him what you no longer have.

“Eridan,” you manage, just for him, because above all else he wants to be wanted.

Every romance you ever read failed to prepare you for what it’s like when your matesprit presses his hand down on his gravid belly. You cradle him and he starts to shiver, and that’s all it takes before the pleasure’s blinding you too.

“Holy shit,” you whisper finally, still coming down. Tiny shocks keep zinging up the insides of your thighs, making your legs tremble. You feel like an empty husk. A datagrub molt Sollux left on the floor, and you no longer want to bite Sollux just for thinking of him. The haze of hormones is lifting a little, and with it, comes the other shoe kicking you in the bulge.

“Goddamnit, I was supposed to give you a break,” you remember, thunking your head against his back. God, you are the worst. The absolute. Worst.

Eridan makes a sleepy noise. He squeezes your hand that’s cradling his belly.

“You did,” he says. “An’ then we took a break from havin’ a break.”

He sounds smug again. Probably because your bulge is still curled inside his nook. You try to move your hips but they’re still frozen in that weird reflex.

“Your nook is going to fall the fuck off.”

Eridan brings your hand up to his mouth and kisses it. It’s obnoxiously romantic.

“You can’t help it,” he says. “An’ it’s kinda fun.”

He reaches out for that pillow again, tucking it beneath his cheek. Any protests you have die when you see him nuzzle it. Hormones or not, you have no viable defense.

“Did you really make this?” he asks, a little softer.

“Yeah,” you grumble. “I fucked it up.”

“It’s together,” he insists. “That’s the first bit. I don’t know what you were goin’ for, but I can teach you.”

The exhaustion is settling over you now, leaving you loose-limbed and cuddly. There’s a lot of things you could say, about how you’re only sewing to give him some space in the first place. How you worry sometimes he humors you too much because of your stupid pheromones.

You must have taken too long to respond because he’s fidgeting, chewing at the edge of his new pillow.

“If you w-want. You don’t have to.”

You shake your head at that anxious waiver in his voice because he’s such an idiot. He’s an idiot, and you’re an idiot, and you give him a kiss on the neck.

“Ask me again when my pan isn’t scrambled,” you say through a yawn.

“Okay,” he says, sounding so pleased.

Because you’re definitely an idiot, any time you doubt him. You might hate your thrice-damned ‘heat’ cycle, you might feel bad that he has to carry your freaky eggs, but you can never hate how happy he seems to have your complete, love struck attention.

You snuggle close, and you don’t have to dream about falling asleep inside him. He drifts off first, smiling the whole time.


End file.
